Forecastle song
Now come all you young sailors and listen to my plea
And when you've heard my tale you'll pity me.
For I was a goddamn fool in the port of Liverpool,
The very first time I came home from sea.
Now I've paid off at the Home, from the port of Sierra Leone;
Three-pound-ten a month it was my pay.
But I wasted all my tin whilst drinking up the gin
With a little girl whose name was Maggie May.
Now well do I remember where I first met Maggie May,
She was cruising up and down in Canning Place,
She was dressed up mighty fine, like a frigate of the line,
So being a ranting sailor I gave chase.
I kept right on her track, she went on the other tack,
But I caught her and I broke her mizzen line.
Next morning I awoke with a head more bent and broke,
No coat, no vest, no trousers could I find.
I asked her where they were, she said, “My good kind sir,
They're down at Park Lane pawn shop number nine.
Now, you've had your cake and bun, and it's time for you to run
Or you'll never make the dockside, lad, in time.”
To the pawnshop I did go, but no trousers could I find,
And the police came and took that girl away.
And the judge he found her guilty of robbing a homeward-bounder;
So now she's doing time in Botany Bay.
Oh Maggie, Maggie May, they've taken you away,
Never more to roam alone down Canning Place
For you robbed too many whalers, and you poxed too many sailors
Now you'll never see old Lime Street anymore.
